


Nothing and Everything

by orphan_account



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 05:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1128828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the confusing haze of the day. Cosima, Sarah, and Helena are left in Mrs. S' house to pick up the pieces. Except Sarah and Helena have forgotten Cosima's presence, and she takes advantage of this by observing them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing and Everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahmanningyeah](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sarahmanningyeah).



> AU in which Helena is actually human and cannot crack cement. After episode 10.

If ever you find yourself seeking a conundrum, consider for a moment the human condition and all it entails. Explore the nooks and crannies of our existence, the footprint we’ve made on Earth, and ask yourself this: Are we malevolent? Are we benevolent?

The answer floats somewhere in the nebulous cloud of contradictions. As a human being, I witness the little silly moments of our species— the strange smiles, the laughs of varying volume, and the irrepressible urge to dance to a favorite song—and I would like to think we lean more towards benevolence; however, as a clone trapped in a double blind experiment and suffering from degenerate DNA my belief careens back towards malevolence like a tedious pendulum.

Even in our most basic concepts of good and evil, there is complication. Love warms the heart and grips the soul, breathing life into our existence. Hatred injects adrenaline in the veins and curdles in the blood, weighing us down. And yet, questions remain. Is love always good? Is hatred never reasonable?  We carry the dual burden with clenched fists.

The scale of capability goes from ripping out our organs for a stranger to genocide. This paradox pulls us together in an impossible bond. As the collision of two atoms brings negative and positive bonds, so does the collision of two human beings. Today, in the stuffy living room of Mrs. S’ house, a bond is made by two sisters. Polarized on their individual spectrum, they drift in the gray area of night and day, of good and evil, and of love and hatred. I observe them from behind my glass of wine, safely tucked away in the corner by the floral cushion of an old armchair.

Sarah paces the room slowly; her face is blank but her eyes are fixed. The shadows of the room emphasize her flexed arms, ready for a fight. She’s a lion without her cub; her claws are protracted and her teeth are grinding, holding back her mournful roar.   

“This is my fault. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have met up with Amelia,” she mumbles, shaking her head as she paces. She infuses her anger in the steady stride of her legs and the force of her clenching jaw.

“I would have saved her.”

My eyes find the different voice settled deep into the couch cushion across from me. Helena sits with her hands trapped between her legs. Her shoulders sway back and forth in a gentle rhythm that nearly succeeds in concealing the lead-like tension congealed in her bones; the frenetic aura of pent up energy strikes the air as an animal strikes its cage.

“Yeah, and give me another problem in the process,” says Sarah, her voice rough. “Last thing I need are bodies in my house—Art’s up my ass enough as it is.”

I consider bringing up the possibility that a group of scientists didn’t black-bag Kira, and that Mrs. S could have taken her. But that would mean bringing their attention to me—and I’ve enjoyed my time being invisible.

“Maybe it was Amelia,” Helena says a minute later, almost to herself. Her face is blank and her eyes unfocused, as though she weren’t paying attention, but something about her voice impresses danger.

“What?” Sarah asks, pausing in her pace. Helena looks up at her, her eyes appear innocent. Two crescent moons the color of a dried prune hangs on her lower eyelids and bow deep into her cheekbones.

“She wanted to talk to you alone. She led you away. I was still _locked_ up,” I can feel the chill in her voice, “And Kira was gone when you came back. Maybe she tricked you, schemed behind your back.”

“What’s wrong with you?  She wouldn’t do that.” she says and continues pacing. I’m starting to worry that she doesn’t see the dismal mood hovering over Helena like a storm cloud.

“She’s a stranger,” Helena says darkly. Her face holds a mask of strained composure but calamity darkens the hues of her face. Watching her sit on the couch as if she belonged there was like watching a bug crawl beneath the golden brown crust of a pie, jarring and disturbing. 

“So are you,” Sarah snaps back, quirking her brow.

“What did she say to you?” Helena’s voice turns unnaturally soft. She’s crouching near her bouncing legs, half bent over. I can see her hands caught between her knocking knees, clenching. Dark, angry rings line the inside of her wrists where she tried to escape her plastic ties.

“Nothing.” 

Helena doesn’t reply, but her upper lip curls slightly. The tendons in her neck bulge as she clenches her jaw. She carries her tension like a boulder over her shoulder, and I can see how it formed and where it will fall.  

For her entire life Helena has lived with one idea engraved in her mind, one thought looped endlessly, and one purpose to fulfill. In the past week she has learned that everything she once knew is a lie. She’s been locked in a trunk and then transferred to the basement where she met a strange woman who called herself Mother. She was then given the dually devastating and elating fact that she is Sarah’s twin sister, and therefore _not_ the original. Add a lifetime of abuse leading to developmental problems and a mal-adjustment disorder to the mix.

The result is this: Helena is on the precipice of breaking; her toes inch the edge of a cliff to an abyss of maddened rage. She is one misguided comment away from collapsing beneath the burden of change, and spiraling into a path of self-destruction. I can only imagine the violence she could muster.

I’m about to speak when I see Sarah pause in her stride. Little signs of concern appear: her hands wring and her eyebrows twitch downward. Haltingly, she walks to where Helena sits and leans against the spine of the couch.

Her eyes pass searchingly over the room and I shrink in my seat, hoping to blend in with the shadows; I cover the reflective gleam of my wine glass with my scarf. After failing to see me, Sarah’s hand hovers over Helena, heavy with hesitation.

Her nails, bitten to the nub, touch the elastic curls standing on Helena’s head like blonde springs. Helena senses the touch and looks up at her sister, waiting. Her face is drawn in angry lines, and she keeps her shoulders hunched. They freeze in that position, bubbling with potential energy. Sarah’s hand remains a decibel out of reach, like the hand of God.

I can almost hear the war in Sarah’s head as her thoughts shoot through her mind like gun fire. Sarah is ruled by two contrasting instincts: her trigger-quick instinct to survive and her maternal instinct to protect and love her family. Helena now fits within her schema for family, but her existence poses a tremendous threat to the rest of her family. 

Sarah sighs, expelling air like smoke from a cigarette, and sends one last glance at the doorway. Slowly, smoothly, her hand moves to cup Helena’s chin; she then bends down to level her head to Helena’s height.

It takes all she has to do this small gesture of affection, and she almost tears her hand off at the warmth in Helena’s neck.  Human warmth, thrust from the same blood that runs through us all, and pulsed through a beating heart.

The agitation carved into Helena’s face drains slowly. She tips her head back onto the cushion so that her neck is exposed and I can see the vulnerable tendons and veins bulge, tense, and pulse as she meets Sarah’s eyes. I find it fascinating that an assassin would put herself in a compromising position if only to see someone better. When a moment has passed, Helena frees her hands from her knees and cups the base of Sarah’s neck. Leaning up, she pulls Sarah into the crook of her shoulder until I can no longer see their faces in the veil of cascading hair.

No words of repair are exchanged and no promises are made, but something sentimental passes through them anyway. This moment between them attests to our need for touch. I believe affection is a biological imperative. Humans are, at the very base, social beings who couldn’t survive half of life’s obstacles without another human beside us.

After some time, I can’t say how long, the light in the room dwindles to pitch black. I know Sarah leans over Helena, but her figure is lost to the shadows. She blends in entirely with the black matter of the room. Helena on the other hand, I can see much better. Her unnaturally pale skin attracts the weak moonlight and outlines her in silver. She hangs onto Sarah like the crescent moon in the sky. I see Helena’s pale hand tangled Sarah’s hair, a drop of light. I see Sarah’s dark hands holding her chin, keeping her in place.

Together they are Yin and Yang, darkness and light, good and evil, and the gray matter in-between. 


End file.
